


Better Than The Memory

by objectlesson



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Armpit Kink, Body Hair, Body Worship, Come Swapping, Comeplay, First Time, M/M, Masturbation, Pining, Power Dynamics, Rutting, Scent Kink, Sweat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:02:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22594495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: Sure, Geralt was muscley and had beautiful, shapely, irritatingly symmetrical lips and an ass shaped by the hands of the godsthemselvesbut—those features alone have never been enough todoit for Jaskier. He’s not aruffian.He needs a little more than natural strength, he needseffort.It shouldn’tmatterthat Geralt is gifted in certain areas because hebathes once a week maybe if they’re luckyand lives in his armor and kisses his horse on the mouth and is otherwise a truly disgusting human. Or not human. A truly disgusting witcher.So it’s absurd and quite shocking, really, when Jaskier starts to get hard every time he can smell Geralt of Rivia’s sweat.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 133
Kudos: 1062
Collections: Good Relationship Etiquette (familial included) - or Good BDSM Etiquette - or Good Relationship and BDSM Etiquette





	Better Than The Memory

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文-普通话 國語 available: [甚于回忆](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22859164) by [山大王 (willa_Y)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/willa_Y/pseuds/%E5%B1%B1%E5%A4%A7%E7%8E%8B)



> oh hi again! I thought I wouldn't write anymore about these two idiots but you all were so kind and enthusiastic about my last fic I'm here again. This is for Kim because we talked entirely too much about scent kink and she's very persuasive. 
> 
> So there's no warning for jacking off into someone's clothing without their consent, but that happens in this fic, so if the idea bothers you then be wary. Otherwise, enjoy!

When Jaskier attached himself firmly and unwaveringly to Geralt’s hip, he thought it would be a safe place to stay, because he was _thoroughly_ convinced he’d never catch feelings for a giant monster-killing brute who smelled like horse. It simply wasn’t in his _nature._ Jaskier was partial to women and men just like him: clean, sophisticated, artistic, pretty, rich. (Well, maybe the rich part they didn’t share, but _still._ He’d be rich _some_ day.) He required that the men he bedded appreciate poetry, and song, and fine-wine. And they _absolutely_ must be well-groomed. 

He just. He didn't see the Geralt problem _coming._ Sure, Geralt was muscley and had beautiful, shapely, irritatingly symmetrical lips and an ass shaped by the hands of the gods _themselves_ but—those features alone have never been enough to _do_ it for Jaskier. He’s not a _ruffian._ He needs a little more than natural strength, he needs _effort._ It shouldn’t _matter_ that Geralt is gifted in certain areas because he _bathes once a week maybe if they’re lucky_ and lives in his armor and kisses his horse on the mouth and is otherwise a truly disgusting human. Or not human. A truly disgusting witcher. 

So it’s absurd and quite shocking, really, when Jaskier starts to get hard every time he can smell Geralt of Rivia’s sweat.

He notices in the worst of moments. Like when Jaskier is drunk on ale in a tavern, trying his hardest not to worry because his dearest (dirtiest) friend is off killing some horrid half-horse half-sea monster creature that’s been stealing virgins from the shores where they forage for mushrooms in this tragic little mushroom foraging town. He never _used_ to worry about Geralt, he only worried about whether or not the escapade would be exciting enough to warrant decent lyrics or if he’d have to embellish. But recently, he’s grown ruefully fond of him, and subsequently realized that he would truly _hate_ if something were to happen to him. So, when he’s off killing things, Jaskier drinks and frets. 

He’s busy doing just that when the tavern doors slam open with the sort of force only a fucking Witcher could administer. He hears stomping boots, labored breath, and the sensation that washes over him is so truly absolving he feels as if his strings have been cut, but manages to catch himself before he crumples to the floor in relief. Instead he spins around on his stool, and his gaze falls to rest upon Geralt: hair matted down in blood the color of rancid pond water, eyes flashing from a stricken, set, face, something muscular in his jaw fluttering. Grip still clutched around the hilt of one of his swords, fierce and white knuckled and _oh—_ just like that, Jaskier’s traitorous cock is _twitching_ in his _small clothes._ He crosses his knees, appalled. “There he is, the mighty man himself, ” he calls, holding one hand up and fumbling clumsily for his mandolin with the other. In seconds, he’s strumming the opening chords to _Toss a Coin_ and the pub is erupting into drunken applause before they break into song. 

Geralt stomps up, crowding him against the bar, smelling quite overwhelmingly of death and sweat and fear and _there is no fucking reason_ that should rocket through Jaskier’s body like is does, but _goddamn_ is he throbbing, shivering, _lost._ Gold eyes burn into him. “We’re leaving,” Geralt says quietly, salty hot breath against Jaskier’s open, shock-slack mouth. “Or better yet, _I_ am leaving. And you’re saying here with your songs and frivolity.” 

This—this shouldn’t be happening. Jaskier should not be getting hard over someone covered in monster guts. He shouldn't be getting hard over _Geralt_ covered in monster guts. Geralt is unattainable and impossible and that’s why he’s let himself follow him around for so long. Because he thought there was a zero percent _chance_ a man like this could break his stupid self-sabotaging heart. “Don’t be absurd, friend,” he snarls, licking his lips because maybe they taste like Geralt’s exhalations. “You _need_ me. Remember, only a few months ago storming into a tavern like this, with your hand on your sword? You’d’ve gotten spit on _at best_. And now, look, free revelry!” he exclaims, grabbing the handle of the ale-jug the bartender’s just slid to them gratefully, humming along to Jaskier’s _continent renowned_ masterpiece. He waggles his eyebrows, grinning because he _knows_ Geralt appreciates all he’s done for him, no matter _how_ hard he pretends otherwise. It’s all an act, though, to cover the fact he’s got an uncomfortable and unwelcome erection _right now,_ brought on by the way Geralt _looks._ Smells. _All of it._ He’s horrified. 

Luckily, Geralt peels away, sighing. “I do like free ale.” 

“Well, you have me to thank for such luxuries,” Jaskier announces, reeling away, hands over his crotch defensively. “I’m off to find something harder.” 

He does not find anything harder, though. He finds himself, in his fist, in the bathroom, head pressed to the wall, wrist aching from the thought of how _strong_ Geralt’s callous rough hand would be curled around it, crushing the bones like they were dust. 

—-

Jaskier would like to believe it’s a fluke that will just…go away. 

Tragically, it’s rather persistent. He’s not _incidentally_ turned on by Geralt’s dirty hair, the horse-and leather smell of his skin, the strong, musky bite of his sweat that’s sometimes so strong Jaskier can _taste_ it on the back of his tongue when they retire for the night in the same inn-room. He’s _pathologically_ turned on by it. Every time Geralt is too close, or too filthy, or leaning into his space blindly to grab something with his arm extended and the dark, dank pit of it inches away from Jaskier’s formerly refined nose…it sends a pang of horrible longing straight between his legs. He’s _powerless_ against it. And it’s _infuriating._

The worst symptom of his terrible affliction is that it _coexists_ alongside whatever _other_ feelings Jaskier entertains regarding Geralt. The hunger hasn’t _replaced_ the exasperation and fury. It _sidles up_ into their arms. He’s mad at him most of the time, frustrated by his stoicism, his recklessness, his silence, but _at the same fucking time,_ he also wants to sink to his knees between the power of his thighs and press his cheek to the front of his trousers, most days, even if Geralt is a mess of blood and sweat. _Especially_ if Geralt is a mess of blood and sweat.Because then, Jaskier want to clean him up. With this _tongue._

It’s dreadful and he’s _mad_ and he _hates_ it. He hates it so much that the next time Geralt’s occupation takes them to somewhere remotely metropolitan, Jaskier makes it a _point_ to fuck the Duke’s son, who may or may not be engaged to a rich merchant’s daughter. He’s horribly handsome, with dark wavy hair, darker eyes, a smattering of freckles across his ruddy cheeks. Jaskier attends a ball at the palace and corners him in a hallway between the library and the kitchens, trapping his narrow body against the wall, reveling in the way it’s _similar_ to his own. This man is roughly his age, his height, his build. He has fuller lips and softer hands and they feel impossibly good clutched behind Jaskier’s neck as he whisks him away to some guest-quarter bed chamber. But then, as they tumble around in sage-green silk sheets, the man starts _talking,_ entirely too much. “I’m going to miss this terribly, once I’m wed,” he laments, sucking a mark into Jaskier’s neck with a sharp, soft mouth. “You might be my last man, before I’m lost forever in a drought. A desert.” 

Jaskier rolls his eyes. He’s only half-hard, and he keeps thinking about Geralt, wondering what he’s _doing_ right now, if he’s sleeping already or confessing secrets to Roach in that low, soft, tone he thinks no one hears (but Jaskier happens to have exceptionally good hearing, so there). “I don’t know if you _realize_ this, but marriage is not so binding a contract as it claims. You’re more than welcome to bed handsome, talented, willing bards even _after_ you’re wearing that ring,” he explains, before he sucks down one of the man’s slender fingers. 

The man sits up, shaking his head, expression revoltingly sincere. “I simply couldn’t. 

“Well…best get your fill in here, right?” Jaskier declares as he pulls off in a mess of spit, rolling him onto his back and straddling his narrow hips, struggling to push his embroidered waistcoat off os his shoulders. Once he’s got him partially undressed he gets right to work: he’s on a _mission_ in this moment, to wipe Geralt of Rivia from his mind. To replace this hopefully temporary transgression with something simply and uncomplicatedly familiar. So familiar he forgets why he ever wanted something foolish and filthy in the first place. 

He thumps the duke’s son into the pillows, forces one of his lithe arms above his head, and buries his face into the downy-soft hair matted down there with clean sweat. He sniffs, experimentally. And then he licks. 

_Nothing._ No sweat, no bite, no spice, no musk, no dirt. Nothing but a faint humidity, and an even fainter whiff of cinnamon soap. Jaskier’s cock, which was trying its very _hardest_ in _earnest_ to stand proud, softens in his trousers. “Bullocks,” he sighs, peeling away and frowning. 

“What?!” the man under him asks, eyes pupil-black and flashing, mouth swollen from kisses. He’s _lovely,_ he really is. Jaskier _hates himself_ for not being able to enjoy it. “Did I—do I—“ 

“You—you did nothing wrong and you smell like a rose,” Jaskier sighs, making a face. “Unfortunately, that’s not working for me lately, so, I’ll give you _this,”_ he rifles into his pocket and forces a few coins into the Duke’s son’s too-soft hand. “And bid you farewell. And I’m terribly sorry. And I _truly_ hope you learn how to sneak around behind your wife’s back because otherwise you’ll die a horrid little ball of resentment.” 

He dodges a few thrown objects. Something from the bedside table, and perhaps a shoe.It doesn’t _matter,_ though. Hid dignity is shattered all the same.

—-

Jaskier doesn't know what’s fucking wrong with him, but from that moment on, it’s become increasingly clear his very _tastes_ have been altered from merely _wanting_ Geralt. He hasn’t even _had_ him yet (in fact he suspects he never will, Geralt doesn’t seem in the least bit interested in even _friendship,_ let alone more) and _still_ he’s completely off his game. What would even _happen_ if he had a taste of that forbidden fruit? Would he turn into one of those slender, fair men who stand on the street corner with women in tight corsets with their tits pushed up to their chins, begging for filthy, broad, cruel men to bend them over their knees? Would he _actually_ be turned on by _other_ men festooned in callous and caked in dirt, or is it simply a _Geralt Specific_ disease? And if it is, does that mean he’s _falling in love with him?_ It’s the worst possible outcome, but Jaskier is increasingly suspicious that it might be his fate, since there’s no more plausible explanation for his new, sudden, terrible change in taste, or the heart palpitations, or the mortifying surge of _jealousy_ he suffers through every time Geralt retires with a woman on his arm. 

He thinks he might be able to wrestle some control over this beast if _only_ he were to change the game. For example, maybe he wouldn’t be _so_ attracted to Geralt if he weren’t _quite_ so dirty and smelly and horsey. “Give me that tunic,” he demands as Geralt strips down for a bath, the muscles in his back rippling deliciously, like waves under the moonlight. Jaskier’s mouth waters, but he decides to ignore it, because he’s changing his fucking _luck_ tonight. He’s washing Geralt’s clothes and washing Geralt and hoping that cures him of his revolting desires. 

“Here,” he mumbles, shrugging the sweat-stained, food-stained, _blood-stained_ cotton into Jaskier’s biting palms. “Do you want these, too?” he mocks, thumbing open the topmost button of his trousers, and _jesus fucking christ,_ he does it one handed and Jaskier really can’t be blamed for choking back an indignant whimper. 

“I do. In fact they might even be more disgusting, I _remember_ you slaughtering that snake-thing over your knee the other day. You didn't even ride these out in the _stream_ afterwards.” 

“Hm,” Geralt says, cracking his back before kicking off the trousers in question and stepping into the hot, steaming bath, calves flexing, ass like something one night see served upon a platter on a holiday. Jaskier certainly wants to stick a fork or dick or incisor in it, anyway. “No point in washing my clothes when I know you’ll do it. And do a better job of it.” 

“You take advantage of me, Witcher,” Jaskier snaps, tossing a handful of calming herbs into Geralt’s bath-water, hoping them _soothe_ the thorny edge right out of him. Jaskier is awfullyl partial to that edge, anyway, and he could really benefit from Geralt dropping a few more attractive features. So he can fucking _live._ “I’ll get these back to you. Tah-tah.” 

Geralt says nothing, and Jaskier whisks off to the inn’s laundry facilities, feeling relieved he doesn't have to witness pale, scarred flesh growing rosy in hot water yet again. It always makes his stomach turn, or his eyes water, and he’s quite tired of such things. 

—-

His laundry plan turns out to be a bust. 

Instead of the scenario curing anything, he's presented with a peculiar and tempting opportunity: alone time with Geralt’s dirty clothes. And as much as he _wanted_ to clean them only five minutes ago, now that seems like…sort of a waste. He can smell them from where they’re balled up in his fists as he leans over a wide metal pan of hot soapy water and he just can’t make him take take the plunge. He glances shiftily over his shoulder at the latched door, and then, without even properly thinking it through, he presses his face into Geralt’s dirty tunic. 

The strongest smell is smoke, from the fires they build and sleep beside whenever they’re doomed to spend their nights out in a scraggly copse of trees while traveling. But under that, there’s so much _more._ A multitude of layers. Fear sweat, battle sweat, ale sweat, perhaps even a musky hint of _sex_ sweat. There’s the coppery bite of blood, the metallic ghost of it sticking in Jaskier’s throat as he desperately, pitifully inhales. His cock is thickening against his flies, and as blood rushes, so does logic, right out of his brain and _god,_ he wants _more_ and he doesn't care what it takes to acquire it. He greedily rifles around in the garment until his nose is pressed into the stained underarm, the halo of faint yellow that spends days upon days pressed flush against Geralt’s ripe skin and _oh,_ it fills his sinuses, it floods his mouth, which he opens over the salt-stiffened garment, gasping as he rubs it over his lips, his hungry tongue. 

There’s salt and spice and this must be what Geralt _tastes_ like. What Jaskier would drown in were he to press his face against the thatch of hair there in the dark crease of him and _lick._ Suck. Make his mouth raw from scouring, and _fucking fuck,_ Jaskier is fumbling into his own trousers to take his cock in hand before he has time to talk himself out of it. A few arousal-drunk moments pass with his wrist trapped tight and working under his waistband until a clear, _brilliant_ thought strikes him through a fog like a beam of lightning. He has Geralt’s _trousers._ Where his presumably massive cock hangs heavy and thick all day while he rides and fights and hikes through the woods. Jaskier groans into the dirty cotton pressed flush to his face and unbuttons his own trousers, freeing his cock so he can get it in _Geralt’s_ trousers instead. 

He curls his fist into the worn-in, high-waisted leather, sheathing himself in it, smoothing a fistful clumsily up and down his shaft while he sucks the sharp, musky sweat out of the tunic. He's _mortifyingly_ close, breath coming out in stilted gasps, cock twitching and dripping and then—suddenly, he’s shooting off. The parabola of white at first lands in the laundry water, which sort of defeats the purpose of cleaning things in the first place, so he hastily catches the rest of his load in Geralt’s tunic, pulsing into the once-white fabric as he gasps, trembling all over, stomach in knots. 

It takes a few minutes of standing doubled over with his senses slowly coming back to him one by one for shame to finally forge its way back into the sated slump of his body. But then, once it’s there, it makes a home. Jaskier shakily mops himself up and thinks about what a bad friend he is, licking the lingering taste of Geralt off of his lips with a self-loathing trepidation. He washes the clothing _extra_ thoroughly, only because he feels like he’s made them ten times filthier with his transgression. As he hangs them to dry he scrubs his face clean, and hours later when he presents the neatly folded pile for Geralt to take and change into, he does not demand an ocean of thanks as he usually might, unable to even make eye-contact. Instead he frowns, and stomps downstairs to the tavern to drink. 

—-

Jaskier loses control of himself and comes into Geralt’s clothes entirely too many times before the guilt catches up to him and he admits it’s perhaps not the most noble service he offers as a travel companion, and he resolves to just endure it next time Geralt’s laundry becomes truly abominable. He’s learned, anyway, that there’s nothing he can do to _stop_ himself from _wanting_ Geralt in the first place. He’s powerless against that storm, he’s given up attempting to weather it. So, he lets his clothes be. As a result, Geralt becomes more and more rank and musky and utterly _, distractingly_ delicious, and all it does is rile Jaskier up _more._ He can hardly _stand_ it, smelling Geralt _all the goddamned time,_ so strong it clings to him, sits on his tongue like poison, chokes his every inhalation. He’s half-hard and gasping and constantly _grumpy_ , and it’s all because Geralt is too complacent in his own _stench_ to wash hisclothes unless Jaskier is _making_ him do it. 

He’s sitting downwind of him on his bedroll strumming at his mandolin when it reaches a critical point. He keeps trying to pick out a tune but he simply _cannot_ focus, because every fucking time he _breathes,_ all he can think of is the way Geralt’s stale sweat tastes sucked desperately out of cotton. The way the soft leather piece in his trousers that serves to protect his cock feels under his own tongue. Every shameful memory of every time he’s gone too far in his desire weighs on him. And on _top of that,_ he’s still _sick_ with yearning. Heart pounding at each lungful of air, cock thick and twitching against his thigh. “For _fucks sake,_ Witcher,” he finally explodes, thumping his mandolin down on the earth hard enough a string whines tunelessly at him upon impact. “We really need to talk about _personal hygiene.”_

 _“_ What, mine?” Geralt grunts without looking up from the fire, which he was pensively staring at because he’s the sort of man who spends _hours_ pensively stares at fires. Only just a few years ago, Jaskier would have called a man like that a _terrible bore._ But now, he’s _in love with one._ One that smells like a fucking stable. It’s _so_ unfair. “I thought you rather enjoyed it.” 

Jaskier sputters in shock for a few moments, mouth opening and closing like an affronted, beached fish while he positively _panics._ Finally, when he remembers how to speak, he manages to choke out, “What’s _that_ supposed to mean?” 

Geralt finally looks at him, golden eyes ever so slightly bemused, one corner of his lovely mouth _very_ nearly quirking into an _almost_ smile. “I can smell your seed in my shirts. I’ve been able to for months. You do it _before_ you clean them.” 

Jaskier can _feel_ the color drain from his face, dread like ice water washing over his body in a solitary, chilling wave. “Oh _gods,”_ he chokes out, dropping his head so that he can cover his newly bloodless expression of horror. “I— _fuck._ You. Why didn't you _say_ anything?” 

“Hm,” Geralt says, and Jaskier watches him turn back to the fire through slotted fingers, heart racing. He feels his face shift from pallor to a deep, mortified flush. “Well. As you can see it’s a rather awkward conversation,” Geralt offers eventually, crossing his powerful thighs and settling back against his leather knapsack, brow no more or less knit than it usually is. Perhaps that’s a good sign. Perhaps it’s a _better_ sign that he just—-let Jaskier silently do unspeakable acts to his belongings without throwing him against a wall and punching his mouth bloody. Maybe he doesn’t care. Maybe there’s still hope for their friendship to remain a tense, stilted, but otherwise _intact_ thing. 

“I’m so, so, so sorry,” Jaskier mumbles. “I’d..I wish I had an explanation but I _don’t,_ save for the horrible truth which is that I fancy the way your sweat smells so much it makes me do awful, irreparably vile things. There are no excuses, nothing at all, I can only beg for your forgiveness.,” he chokes out. 

Geralt’s mouth flattens out into a line before it flickers into a frown. He’s quiet for entirely too long, and it gives Jaskier time to construct a multitude of imagined outcomes for this conversation, all of them ending up in either his death, or the perhaps even more tragic possibility of _not ever getting to see_ _Geralt of Rivia again._ And the more he thinks about it, the more he thinks he might not be able to endure such a fate. “You have every reason to be angry,” he adds eventually as the silence yawns on, throat tight and aching around the unspoken plea _please, please don’t leave me. “_ But please, give me another chance to prove I’m your friend. I’m your _friend_ above all else and I value that.” 

“It’s been a long while,” Geralt says then, and it is so shockingly non-sequitur Jaskier wrinkles his nose up in surprise, recoiling on his bed mat. 

“What has?”he asks, terrified of the answer. 

“This,” Geralt grumbles then, gesturing sharply to Jaskier, eyes flashing, reflecting the glow of the fire back so there is too much light in this otherwise dark wood. “Before I could smell it in my clothes I could—I could smell it on you. All the time. And you never said anything either. You just carried on following me.” 

Jaskier winces, heart lurching up into the tight constriction of his throat as he _recalls_ how sharp a Witcher’s sense of smell is. He somehow, so _foolishly forgot,_ instead thinking all these years he was getting _away_ with something. That he was a clever boy with a dirty secret, when _meanwhile,_ Geralt was onto him. Could smell all his filth, just like he could smell Geralt’s. It’s terribly humiliating, and it settles low and hot in his gut like he swallowed a burning stone. “I did. I should—I should have told you. I should have left when I noticed it turning into something enduring. I should have, but I _didn’t,_ because I didn’t think it _mattered._ You’d never—loving you was a futile, tragic, terminal thing, you know? So yes, I just carried on.” 

“I see,” Geralt says after a long moment, grabbing a sharp stick off the ground and stoking the fire quite violently with it, sparks erupting in a swirling shape of amber against the night. Jaskier flinches, still not entirely sure this won’t end in Geralt snapping his spine against a tree or something.

The quiet stretches painfully on, and as it builds like something sinister in the darkness, Jaskier _cannot_ stand it. “I’ll—Geralt, _please_. I’ll make it up to you. I’ll do whatever you _want,_ I’ll _behave myself_ as best I can if you just—” his voice dies in his throat because in this moment, Geralt is getting up, thighs flexing in dirty leather as he stands and strides across the fire to Jaskier, and _oh gods._ This is it. The moment he kills him, breaks his neck, rips his heart out in a fist, _something._ Jaskier scrunches his eyes shut in terror and decides in a split second to accept his fate, since this is what he _deserves,_ for violating Geralt’s laundry so many times. He just prays it’s quick, and painless, and Geralt is merciful as he cracks every single one of Jaskier’s ribs in a swift and fatal blow.

Amid darkness and static and he braces himself for pain, but it never comes. Instead, there’s a hand on his shoulder, a thumb biting into the ditch beneath his clavicle, and a solid, suffocating weight settling over his hips as he's straddled. “ _Fuck,”_ Geralt growls out against his neck, hair tickling against his face, breath a hot, maddening gust against his pulse. Jaskier can _smell_ him everywhere, and it makes his mouth water, forces an involuntary gasp from his lips as his heart thunders like hooves against packed earth. “I cannot stand it— you talking about doing whatever I want. About behaving yourself. I cannot _listen to that_.” 

“What—what then? What?” Jaskier hisses through grit teeth, eyes flashing open, wide and pleading.

Geralt flat out _growls_ then, and Jaskier’s cock twitches at the same time he thinks he might _die._ Literally. “I don’t _want_ you doing whatever _I_ want, I want—I want you to fucking _take_ me. Take what’s yours. What’s been yours this whole fucking time,” Geralt grinds out, at the same time he finds Jaskier’s hand where it’s clutched terror-tight in his bedroll. He unclenches his fingers roughly, and then, moves his spread-wide palm to the bulge between his legs. 

“Oh— _Oh,”_ Jaskier sputters, hardly _believing_ any of this is happening. It seems _impossible,_ because _he’s told himself_ so many times it could never _be._ That loving Geralt, _wanting_ him the way starving men want _meat,_ was a hopeless endeavor. That it would never amount to anything, that he was condemned to a lifetime of aimless, aching hunger. But now—he’s crushed under Geralt’s weight, he's _feeling_ Geralt’s _cock_ through the same leather trousers he’s _come into_ before. It has him breathless, astounded, _weak._ “Do you even know what you’re asking?” “he murmurs, turning his head to press his lips questioningly into the sinewy cords of Geralt’s neck, where sweat is beading at the strain. It’s a familiar flavor, but it transforms him into a reeling mess of trembles all the same. “Because—because if I were to take what I desire—Geralt, it’s _everything_. I fear it could tear you apart,” he admits, eyes shut, lashes fluttering against a deceitfully steady pulse. 

Geralt chokes out a dark, low laugh. “I suppose I’ll take my chances, then,” he murmurs, cupping a palm against Jaskier’s cheek and turning him. “So be it. Tear me apart.” And then he kisses him, gentle and searching before Jaskier makes it filthy, because there’s no other way it could _be,_ like this, when he’s hard and desperate and dirty and has _wanted_ this for so long he feels like it’s crowded out all other hunger, replaced his very stomach with _this._ Geralt’s tongue filling his mouth, their breath in gales, an impossible solidity grinding him into his bedroll so heavy he can feel earth bunching and shifting beneath his back. They will bury themselves with this, Geralt will dig them both into a pit in the ground and Jaskier doesn’t even _care._ He’s allowed to take what he wants. He’s allowed his basest coveting. 

He gasps as they part, struggling to roll Geralt over onto his back by his shoulders. If it were a battle of strength he’d _lose,_ but Geralt lets him win this time, moving willingly, settling down into the bedroll as Jaskier paws at his dirty tunic. “Get this thing off,” he demands, making a fist in the stained fabric, tugging fiercely enough he can hear something in it tearing. “I’ve already _had_ it, thank you very much, I’d prefer the real thing.” 

“The smell of you—the smell of your come,” Geralt rumbles, eyes nearly black with pupil, flint-dark and flashing like the night. “Makes my mouth water. I’d fall asleep with my own shirt in my mouth. Sucking. Like a child.” 

“ _Gods,_ fuck, _fuck,”_ Jaskier whines, rolling his hips against the broad plane of Geralt’s thigh, gasping at all the exposed skin as it’s revealed in fire lit strips. “You’re going to make me fall to pieces before I even get you undressed. Shut up before I come in my trousers,” he demands, mouth watering to the point of nearly _dripping_ as he drags it down the divot between Geralt’s pectoral muscles. He’s so _hard_ everywhere, warm and sweat-damp, his chest hair scouring Jaskier’s tender, parted lips. He gets lost in it for a moment, just kissing him, matting the silver curls down with his tongue, inhaling him, grinding against him, shivering at the way Geralt’s heart is thudding under his mouth, the way his hand has moved to cup the back of Jaskier’s head, threading blunt fingers through his roots. He’s fairly certain he _could_ come just like this, in his clothes while he does nothing but lick the sweat and dirt up from Geralt’s skin, but he wants _more._

He mouths his way up, grazing flesh with teeth, thumbing over Geralt’s nipple so it hardens into a point he can hungrily suck. All the while, Geralt holds him close, kneads at the back of his head, buries his face into his hair like he thinks Jaskier smells as good as Jaskier thinks _he_ smells. “You’re insufferable, truly the _worst,_ for _years_ I've been wanting you like this and meanwhile you’ve just been sucking me out of your shirts to lull yourself to sleep? I’d choke you if I wasn’t so desperate to choke _on_ you. Your cock, I mean. Your— _god._ Yes. Here,” he mumbles as he kisses a sloppy path to the crease of Geralt’s underarm. “Put your hand above your head,” Jaskier orders, pushing impatiently at Geralt’s flexing tricep. He’s hit with an overwhelming gust of humidity and musk, and it makes him moan, very nearly drooling as he presses his face right into the ditch of it. “Here,” he trembles out again, voice trapped against thin skin. It’s in this moment Jaskier realizes this might be the only soft, vulnerable place on the whole of Geralt’s body, which makes his stomach swoop, his cock twitch where its trapped in his trousers, so he unbuttons them and frees himself desperately, rucking fabric down the expands of his thighs with such force it burns. He kisses Geralt’s armpit once, and then again, before he sucks the thatch of hair into his mouth and sucks salty sweat right out of it, groaning. It’s tonight’s sweat, today’s sweat, yesterday’s sweat, the _week’s_ sweat. It’s layers upon layers, a whole map of their life together, side by side, touched and untouched. Jaskier feels crazy with the overwhelm of that knowledge as he sucks and licks in hungry pulses, hands all over Geralt’s heaving ribcage as he drowns. 

“Better than the memory?” Geralt murmurs against Jaskier’s ear, fist fierce in the back of his collar.

“One thousand times,” Jaskier murmurs, licking over the patch of hair in a wide, wet swath before forcing himself to sit back a bit and survey his work, the shine of saliva in the fire’s glow. “I want to come right here,” he says, thumbing over Geralt’s underarm, making him shiver and grit his teeth. “Into my spit.” 

“If it’s what you wish,” Geralt murmurs. “You may do whatever you like.” 

And then he pulls Jaskier down into a biting kiss, gasping into the heat of it, the slide of their lips and the thrash of their tongues. “Can you taste yourself on me?” Jaskier asks, as he peels away in a dizzy haze, just long enough to clumsily wiggle out of his trousers completely.

Geralt licks his lips and stare for a moment, smoothing the hand he does not have pinned above his head in the half-pantomime of crucifixion down Jaskier’s hip, kneading softness, leaving pink marks on pale skin. “Yes,” he admits. “I’ve thought of you like this,” he adds then, eyes fluttering closed as Jaskier scrambles up to straddle his chest, which is wide enough it makes his pelvis ache at the spread. Geralt feels broader than the back of a horse, and the mere _thought_ of that makes his cock flex, fluid beading out. 

“Like what? Cock so hard it hurts?” Jaskier asks, taking himself in hand and pumping a few times, a hiss escaping his mouth, which is hanging open. He can’t seem to keep it closed without feeling so out of breath his vision begins to cloud with static. “Or jacking off into your armpit? Seems rather specific a fantasy for us to both share.” 

“Just. In my arms,” Geralt says then, palming up the flex of Jaskier’s thigh, pushing the hair against the grain. “On top of me.” 

Jaskier is not sure why, but something about the softness with which he says it hooks so low in his gut there’s simply not a single other option save for pitching forward to catch Geralt’s lovely, perfect mouth in his own. He kisses him deeply and messily, overwhelmed, and Geralt reaches between them to curl a fist around his cock, thumbing through the precum beading a the tip, smearing it down his shaft. It feels _so fucking good,_ good enough Jaskier is keening into their kiss, rolling his hips, fucking desperately into the pressure. He feels like he can’t last like this so he wrenches away, throwing his head back, batting Geralt’s hand off and arranging himself accordingly so his cockhead is pressed into Geralt’s underarm hair. 

Geralt lets him, gazing up plaintively as Jaskier tugs himself to a rapid, powerful finish. He yelps as he spills over, forcing his eyes open so he can watch the pearly white land exactly where he wants it. One pulse onto spit-slick silver hair before Geralt groans, eyes flashing darkly as he curls his fingers around Jaskier’s cock to ensure the rest falls in his open mouth. 

Time slows down, nothing but pounding blood and hazy smoke and the truly filthy image of Geralt of Rivia with his mouth open, a pearly mouthful on his tongue, the rest glistening in the still exposed ditch of his underarm. “God, you’re so beautiful, it makes me so _mad,”_ Jaskier sighs as he crumples, forehead pressed somewhere above his bedroll into the actual dirt. It’s disgusting, and it’s probably going to cling to the patina of sweat there, but he doesn’t even _care_ he’s so properly fucked. Which is _remarkable,_ considering he _hasn’t_ even been properly fucked. Just _kissed,_ while he made _himself_ come. It’s baffling and he’s probably ruined for his whole stupid life. 

Geralt’s throat clicks as he swallows Jaskier’s load, murmuring wordlessly before he rolls out from under the messy weight of his body. Then he man-handles him effortlessly back onto the bedroll, pausing to brush the earth from his brow, mouth quirked into an almost-smile before he bends to kiss him. The gesture nearly makes Jaskier _weep_ in its careful, tender sweetness. And to think, only moments ago he was sure Geralt was prepared to snap his neck. He lies there, a boneless wreck of limbs, watching as Geralt rubs himself through his leather trousers, just _looking_ at Jaskier, the gold in his eyes flickering and hungry. “What are you planning to do?” Jaskier asks, licking his lips. 

“What would you have me do?” he asks, popping the first button and _oh,_ Jaskier’s just come but his spend cock twitches all the same. “I’m at your mercy still.” 

Jaskier rolls over, flipping his own tunic up over his back so the curve of his ass is exposed. He wriggles, hoping he looks more scrumptious that ridiculous, though it’s hard to tell since he feels like everything he ever knew about seduction and sex has been wiped from his brain and replaced with very satisfied static. “You can fuck me,” he mumbles, voice muffled by bedroll. “If you’d like me even more of a senseless mess than I am now.” 

Geralt’s eyes flash, dark and possessive before he grips Jaskier’s hips and drags him closer, grip firm and biting. “Don’t tease.” 

“Gods, you think I’m teasing? I’m _not,_ I’m yours, yours to fuck to bits.” 

Geralt arches an eyebrow. “We’re in the woods.” 

“So? What does that matter? We’re _miles_ from any town, worst case scenario is that a deer walks by and is scarred for the rest of her life,” Jaskier offers, bending one knee up to his chest so he parts the globes of his ass, knowing full well how irresistible men look from his angle. Geralt’s throat bobs as his gaze darkens, so he supposes it does the trick. A hiss passes Jaskier’s grit teeth as Geralt bears down on top of him, chest hair scraping against his back, and _god,_ yes, he would like to be made raw from that particular sort of chaffing, thank you very much. Geralt kisses him on the top most knob of his spine. “I want you so very badly,” he admits. “But in a _bed._ So I can really lay you out, take you apart,” he murmurs, thumbing at Jaskier’s crack anyway, thumbing over his hole, roughly so he shifts and bucks at the filthy burn. “I’ll come right here though, just not inside. Tease you. Keep you on the tip so you’re begging for me by the time we make it somewhere to rent a room.” 

Jaskier moans against the bedroll, the skin he sleeps on wet with his spit. “I’ve been begging for you for _years,_ Witcher. Take pity on a poor man, please.” 

Geralt only grumbles, though, unbuttoning his trousers before forcing them down his hips just enough to free his cock. Jaskier can _smell_ it, musk and sex and sweat and man, and it makes his mouth flood all over again. He rubs his cheek into the wet spot he’s made as he arches his spine deeply, backing himself up onto Geralt’s thick shaft so it bisects his cheeks. “Fuck, that’s huge.” 

“Mhm,” Geralt mumbles, cupping a possessive palm around Jaskier’s throat and squeezing a bit, enough he’s forced to gasp. “Wouldn’t you rather I open you up on my fingers, first? With some rose oil?” 

“ _Rose oil,_ what on earth has given you the impression I— _oh—_ want sex to smell _pretty_?” Jaskier forces out, even as his voice withers into something weak and reedy. Geralt is thrusting against him, heavy and powerful, cock driving between his cheeks and nudging temptingly against his hole, the weight of his body drilling him onto the bed-roll and it’s _so_ maddeningly good. He can smell Geralt’s dirty sweat all around him, Geralt’s _dirty hair_ as it falls from its tie and tumbles across Jaskier’s shoulders. Then there’s his _mouth—_ wet and hot as he bites and sucks all over Jaskier’s back and neck and _fuck,_ he's getting hard again, cock rubbing against the skin with every jerk of Geralt’s hips. 

“Fine,” Geralt huffs, biting him. “No rose oil. I’ll use my tongue instead.” And just like that, he’s coming in searing ribbons all over Jaskier’s back, against his hole, smeared between his cheeks. It’s so fucking sudden and hot and wet it shocks a nervy groan out of Jaskier’s throat. He presses back against it, though, riding that final thrust out, still so stunned _any_ of this is happening to him. Geralt rolls off of him before he collapses on top, and as much as Jaskier would love to be crushed under all that weight, he’s also very happy to be alive right now, so. He sidles up against Geralt’s side instead, dripping come down his thighs in the process. 

“I won’t say _no_ to a room and rose oil, I suppose. Or your tongue. There’s very little I’d say no to, where you’re concerned, Witcher,” he admits after a moment of lying there with his fingers splayed wide over Geralt’s heaving chest, cheek pressed close enough to his underarm he can smell it, the bite of sweat bathed in spit and come, this time. His _own_ spit and come. He shivers, feeling very accomplished. 

“Hm,” Geralt mumbles, pulling Jaskier into his arms, and burying his face into the sweat-damp mess of his hair to inhale. Jaskier melts into it. “Good to know.” 

“You’re also welcome to suck on _me_ instead of your shirt when you’re trying to fall asleep,” Jaskier announces, sitting up to grin complacently at Geralt, who is busy throwing a thick forearm over his eyes so their gazes do not meet. 

“I rather wish I hadn't told you that,” he mumbles. 

Jaskier is about to pull down his arm and kiss him when he gets sidetracked by the sight of his own come in the hair under Geralt’s arm. He hums, bending down to lick it up instead, holding Geralt’s arm in place to keep him split like a wishbone. “I, on the contrary, are rather thrilled you did,” he purrs. 

Then, with a mouthful of his own load, he kisses Geralt deep and wet. “Better than the memory?” he asks, their lips ghosting wetly together. 

Geralt’s eyes are closed as he frowns, but eventually they flicker open to reflect the heat of the fire as he admits. “One thousand times.” 


End file.
